Merlin of the Magnolias

by Gardner Landry

  With his lunchtime preamble complete, Merlin was ready to dive into the heart of his feast. First there was a crisp salad of shredded cabbage, bell peppers, and herbs topped with torn strips of roasted and flash-fried duck and covered with a thin, vinegary pepper sauce that piqued his desire for the forthcoming dishes—and forthcome, they did. There were salt-and-pepper-fried whole prawns he devoured with such gusto he barely removed their shells before pawing them toward his insatiable maw. There were flat pieces of pork surrounding central oval bones he dispatched with equal speed but with enough dexterity and dental precision to eat to the very edges of the bones. Merlin the bone edger moved to a dish of beef short ribs in a savory sauce with whole roasted garlic cloves that alit piping hot from the kitchen. With a judicious nod to his health, he ordered a dish of baby bok choy and tofu fried with aromatic herbs, leeks, and lemongrass. He liked the name baby bok choy and wondered if there was ever a midget wrestler in the days of yore from perhaps colonial Hong Kong who was called Baby Bok Choy. He considered the yin and yang of bok choy—how when cooked it remained firm and crisp at its core while becoming supple at its leafy edges. He was certain that, with a stage name like Baby Bok Choy, such a wrestler would have had an automatic leg up on his opponents and a thoroughly successful career.

  Finally, there was a whole fried red snapper topped with a dark brown sauce featuring shallots, scallions, sliced fresh ginger, and fresh-quartered kaffir limes. Merlin processed the top side of the fish, removing the flesh from its skeleton and flipping the entire filet deftly onto a bed of rice he had prepared for its bull’s-eye landing on his plate. A few moments later, he flipped the plattered fish with the aplomb of a seasoned teppanyaki chef and fileted its other side as fresh pillows of rice awaited its imminent flop onto his plate with the attendant spectacle of drops of sauce spattering upward onto the already food-pummeled smock. For dessert, he decided to be judicious and opt for a simple, yet cloyingly sweet, Vietnamese sua da coffee with condensed milk as thick as the Gulf Coast air into which he would soon wobble after his noonday culinary romp.

  Merlin’s other stops during the ensuing days included South Asian buffets of Sri Lankan, Pakistani, and northern and southern Indian provenance, a Japanese robatayaki restaurant, several Central American pupuserias in the Bellaire area, a Persian place, and an enormous Lebanese lunch buffet line, the contents of which were so vast and varied that even Merlin could not imagine sampling everything on offer at one sitting. One of his more astounding performances came at one of those all-you-can-eat Brazilian churrascarias where the staff continues to bring freshly fire-roasted meats to diners until they turn their green dining cards over to the red side to signify that the onslaught of animal protein has vanquished them. Merlin’s level of consumption at this place was so prodigious that, after his departure, management convened to reconsider the all-you-can-eat policy and the restaurant’s price structure.

  In addition to the world of global cuisine, Merlin descended on reliable haunts featuring regional favorites. As it was crawfish season, he hit all the spots—the true Cajun places and, his favorite, the hybrid Vietnamese/Cajun crawfish restaurants in the Southeast Asian enclave on the west side of town past the beltway. He devoured pound after pound of the cayenne-and-Vietnamese-spiced critters that after their sacrifice in the spiced boiling pot were strained from their final swim, and in the style unique to the Vietnamese preparation, were dusted in spices and doused in massive amounts of butter in a big aluminum bowl for serving. He also felt obligated to get the full experience and avoid insulting the staff by consuming the boiled potatoes, corn on the cob, onions, garlic, and Andouille sausage accompanying each of his orders. Strategically, Merlin scheduled these feasts late in the afternoon, as these restaurants filled up at night and westbound evening traffic was horrendous.

  No tour of Houston would be complete without a deep dive into the world of Tex-Mex, so Merlin went to his top spots until he was relleno with every Mesoamerican chile imaginable. He even departed from the culinary borderlands and found himself in a Yucatan restaurant for a little cochinita pibil. Later he landed at another interior Mexican place with rich mole sauces from Puebla and Oaxaca. Burgers, fried chicken, straight-ahead Gulf Coast fish and seafood, and a whole kaleidoscope of barbequed favorites were also on Merlin’s list, as he had a sense that when his new career began, he would be limited to rare visits to his cherished spots. At the end of this binge, his already fulsomely cut wardrobe fit him like so many form-fitting surgical gloves. Even from the depths of leaden self-unawareness Merlin heard the whisper of a cosmic suggestion that he consider dialing back his intake. Although his ballooned girth limited his mobility more than ever, he was satisfied that he had not missed out on the vast variety and quality of culinary comestibles his steaming mishmash of a city offered. This satisfaction afforded him the opportunity to focus on the task at hand—his new role at the Fandango Utilities blimp base.

  • Eight

  Merlin’s arrival at the Fandango blimp base proved to be nothing less than a revelation. First he responded in A-student fashion to Lyudmila Sukhova’s directive to organize passenger and maintenance scheduling and parts requisition for the blimp. Although customer rides were a secondary aspect of the blimp’s promotional purposes, recent miscommunications had upset the balance of harmonious corporate/client relations as his predecessor had been far from fastidious in matching blimp passengers to acceptable and available flight times. The ensuing grumblings of the crestfallen clients made their way all the way back to Rex Mondeaux, who on getting a look at the individual in charge of the scheduling and knowing the amatory proclivities of the chief blimp pilot, immediately deduced that her service was most likely entirely focused on the pilot and not the clients. A little more research on the part of his cold-blooded Russian marketing manager confirmed Mondeaux’s suspicions. He congratulated himself (as he often did) that he had hired the polar opposite to do the attractive young woman’s previous job. He was particularly satisfied knowing this would thoroughly frustrate the chief pilot, Captain Dirk Kajerka, whose prospects for similar pay and hours beyond the blimp base dwindled with each passing season.

  In very short order, Merlin put his formidable left-brain abilities to work creating software to manage the administrative problems his predecessor had ignored. He wrote a program to show available passenger flight times for a solid year in advance. Another program sent e-mails advising future blimp riders of their flight dates and times while simultaneously entering their information in his main scheduling database for in-house purposes. He spoke with the chief of blimp maintenance and learned that there was no regular communication regarding blimp upkeep and management at Fandango. In fact, the maintenance chief was using guidelines in an outdated printed manual from the blimp manufacturer. Merlin wrote a program that allowed the engineer to click and mark an electronic checklist at regular intervals and automatically communicate that information to management at Fandango and to the blimp manufacturer. With this program in place, Fandango was able to keep the blimp flying more of the year, as parts requisition became a much quicker and easier process.

  Notwithstanding his frustration at his sassy little sidekick’s departure, Captain Kajerka overcame his initial revulsion at the sight of the new administrative coordinator and actually started to interact with him in a vaguely civil manner. He could not deny that Merlin’s tech skills had made everyone’s life at FUBAR considerably less stress-prone and that the incoming good reports to management from happy blimp passengers lowered the collective staff blood pressure by several digits. Nevertheless, his sky-high libido squirmed within him as he longed for an assistant like the comely but less than competent one so recently departed from the service of FUBAR.

  After the passage of several weeks, and with the new system whirring like a well-oiled machine, an inkling of an idea rose on the foggy horizon of Dirk Kajerka’s imagination. With all the new goodwill flowing from corporate in the direction of FUBAR, he reasoned, it mi
ght be acceptable to ask for at least a part-time hospitality employee to greet arriving blimp passengers, check them in, and accompany them to the lighter-than-air vehicle before takeoff. Likewise, she (and he saw the new employee as none other than a she, and a certain kind of she at that) could usher blimp riders on their way after landing, providing them with certificates memorializing their flight and thanks for participating in the FUBAR/Airmadillo story. He reasoned that he could sell this proposal to his bosses on a couple of counts. One: as competent as the new admin at FUBAR was, he was the opposite of what you would want a client to see on arrival at the base. Far from instilling a sense of security and confidence in passengers, one look at Merlin, he would argue, might strike serious doubt, if not fear, in the about-to-ascend passengers. Anyone would agree that, regardless of his competency, Merlin was an unsettling presence to encounter.

  Two: if the prospective air hostess were only a part-time employee, she would not be a significant financial burden to Fandango Utilities. Surely it would be worthwhile for Fandango to make the newly tightened ship of blimp operations thoroughly professional by presenting a pleasant greeter and facilitator to VIP clients. He knew he would have to first overcome the cold raised eyebrow of the Russian marketing director, but if he could win her advocacy for the idea, she might be able to sway Rex Mondeux to agree to the plan, even though the departure of the less-than-professional recent admin/greeter was still relatively fresh in the renowned mogul’s memory. Mondeaux didn’t micromanage his other companies, but the Airmadillo was different; it was a pet project into which he invested personal pride. Maybe, just maybe, Dirk Kajerka reasoned, if all the stars lined up, he could once again have a comely sidekick at the base. Conceiving this whole scenario was as much strategic thinking as Kajerka had done in years, but his motivation, base though it may have been, was equally strong and now grounded in determination. The blimp would have a stewardess (he cleaved to the antiquated sexist term) and an accompanying wardrobe of professional but ever so slightly sexy blimp stewardess outfits suitable for every season. But could he sell it? He didn’t want to get ahead of himself. He decided that although Merlin was a low man on the totem pole, it might be judicious to win him over to his plan. After all, keeping the big fella happy and generating good work product could do nothing but redound to an overall positive atmosphere at FUBAR. Making Merlin feel a part of the decision to hire a part-time blimp attendant would also, Dirk reasoned, make him feel like a part of a team, regardless of how much Merlin seemed like a lone jumbo planet in his own obscure solar system.

  One morning when the blimp was undergoing a scheduled maintenance thanks to Merlin’s new software, Merlin was getting hot water for his hibiscus tea in FUBAR’s commissary. The captain ambled in to fill his coffee cup just a moment later and realized that this was his chance to reel Merlin into his scheme. Merlin’s spine straightened a bit in deference to aeronautical authority as he noted the pilot entering the commissary and angling toward the coffee machine.

  “Kind of a quiet morning here at the old FUBAR, huh?”

  Merlin steadied himself to prepare to respond to the unexpected query from the base’s on-site alpha authority figure. Captain Kajerka had never asked such a seemingly innocuous question of him. Was it a test? Merlin pondered this for a long moment before responding in what he considered the most professional of manners.

  “Yes, the zephyrs of the incoming norther appear to have arrived ahead of the meteorological sages’ prognostications.”

  “Wow! Zephyrs! I used to know an entertainer named Zephyr,” enthused the mustachioed captain.

  Merlin tried to mirror the pilot’s conversational tone with his response: “It sounds rather like the name of a thoroughbred racehorse, perhaps.”

  “Oh, she was a thoroughbred alright—from head to tail.”

  Merlin faltered, wide-eyed and silent.

  The captain recognized Merlin’s unease and changed the subject. “Well, everybody, myself included, is talking about what a great addition you have been to the team here at the base.”

  Although they seemed to be already at full aperture, Merlin’s eyes widened a bit more. “Th … thank you,” he stuttered.

  “You’ve taken care of a lot of stuff that got overlooked around here, but I am kind of thinking we need a little something else to round out the FUBAR experience.”

  Merlin cocked his head like a befuddled golden retriever.

  “Yeah, what with me flying, and you and the mechanics handling the scheduling and technical stuff, not to mention the ground crew, don’t you think we may be swimming in a little too much testosterone around here?”

  “Oh! Perhaps?” Merlin ventured.

  “I knew you’d feel the same way,” the pilot cajoled his easy-to-hit mark with more shameless flattery. “Yeah, so what I’m thinking is we put an ask in for a part-time air hostess, a young lady who could really convey the Fandango vibe. She would welcome clients, get them settled in the blimp, and maybe even provide a little tour guide banter in the airship if she has a flair for performing.”

  Having grown up in a largely male household, Merlin knew how dull a single-gender milieu could make the atmosphere. “Yes!” he offered with sudden enthusiasm. “I can visualize such an addition to the staff.”

  “I mean, you know, this would be only a part-time position, but it could be a real enhancement to the whole show.” Dirk Kajerka lingered on the words “position” and “enhancement” and noted that Merlin accepted his statement without the slightest suspicion of double entendre. Great, Kajerka mused to himself, this guy could be the perfect accomplice. “Okay, then,” he said, “I will run this up the flagpole with Lyudmila and see if she thinks it might fly.”

  “Oh, okay,” replied Merlin with the amiable bemusement of those born in the manger of naiveté. He was relieved to have managed a verbal parley with the swaggering captain of the vehicle for which the base existed, but reflecting on the interchange in his office, he felt newly at ease—like a real team member, someone the pilot would chat with while getting coffee on a slow day. Little did he suspect his suddenly solicitous superior imagined a flight attendant whose primary attendee would be he of the bouncing epaulets, Captain Dirk Kajerka, himself.

  • Nine

  Lindley Acheson decided to walk to her meeting at the Garden Club this Saturday morning. If Indian summer signified warm weather that persisted into fall in New England, then there needed to be, she reasoned, a term for coolish spring weather that lingered into the relentlessly encroaching heat and humidity of an approaching Houston summer. She was enjoying her walk in this nameless cool, when she heard the familiar strains of the armonica careening through the neighborhood. Her route would take her past Merlin’s observatory, so she made a game of trying to determine what he was playing as she approached.

  The lively tune was Merlin’s arrangement of “La Primavera” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. As she got closer to the tower, she realized that Merlin was doing a kind of glass armonica karaoke this morning. A recording of the classic Baroque-era piece blared on his sound system and the armonica was accompanying it. Lindley thought this a rather ingenious solution, as the Vivaldi piece’s rapid-fire violin solos and punchy passages were not ideally suited to the mechanics of Merlin’s instrument. The armonica, however, did add a certain resonance to the recorded piece that, she had to admit, enhanced it considerably.

  When she was within a few hundred feet of Merlin’s tower, the music stopped, and by the time she neared the McNaughton address, Merlin was emerging from the garden gate onto the sidewalk, a clipboard clamping a jumble of penciled papers. He seemed to be in a hurry as he started his walk to breakfast, so Lindley quickened her pace to catch up with him, calling ahead to him before he set out in earnest.

  “Merlin!” Lindley called with sufficient vigor to be heard above the tuned-up lawnmowers of Bayou Boughs. He stopped, looked up, turned slightly, then continued to walk. Lindley called again, and he turned around completely and s
aw her. She was wearing a Mexican-style sundress and pulling a little cart with her gardening implements: some topsoil, a few flower bulbs, and other related items.

  “Hello, Lindley!”

  “I liked what you were playing this morning.”

  “Yes, well, thank you. It’s something new, a kind of collaboration between armonica and a masterful recorded rendition.”

  “I could tell. It was nice!”

  “I was concerned that I might be cheating in my musicianship, but I decided the armonica might complement rather than simply imitate the recording.”

  “It was very complementary. I really have never heard anything like it.”

  At this, Merlin’s face lightened, and he stood up a little from his slump.

  “Really? Perhaps I have stumbled onto something!” Merlin offered as he stepped backward and tripped slightly on an uneven section of sidewalk, causing his clipboard nearly to escape his grasp.

  “I think you should play more pieces like this when you get the inspiration.”

  “Thank you. I think I will!”

  Lindley’s phone rang, and she apologized for having to take the call. Merlin waved and headed for the club. After the call, Lindley looked up toward Merlin’s backyard abode. She noticed that there was a strange kind of writing painted on its walls near the doorway. She also saw a clipboard like the one Merlin was carrying hanging on a nail on the outer wall next to the tower’s balcony, its papers flapping in the mild spring breeze.

  As Merlin entered the locker room and rounded the corner of the opening foyer, something spun him with a jolt, sending his formerly clipped assortment of notes snowing onto the floor around him. He looked down and saw a designer golf outfit–wearing Tite Dûche grimacing back at him, fire in his beady close-set eyes. Merlin couldn’t tell whether he ran into Tite or Tite ran into him this time, but never one to err in the direction of the unmannerly, he began to apologize. Tite met this offer with a stony stare and marched off like a toy hussar for his tee time. Merlin scooped up his notes and shuffled toward his usual spot at the bar. Shep Pasteur was staring at his shoes as Merlin angled to dock himself at his corner spot.